Aviatophobia
by Azpidistra
Summary: A young Immortal is running from her past, and finds solace in one she did not expect. (An AU fic) *COMPLETED*
1. Welcome to Paris

Author's Note: Well, they do say third time is the charm. So, hopefully, I'll keep this story around for a while. As always, I do not own Duncan MacLeod, Richie Ryan, Adam Pierson/Methos or Joe Dawson. I do, however, own Asher Jacobs. In terms of the storyline, the story is set in the year 2004. Richie Ryan was never killed, however, Joe Dawson was killed the previous year in a car crash. **************************************************************************** ****************  
  
September 09, 2004, 11:30 AM Le Blues Bar, Paris, France  
  
Le Blues Bar had come well-recommended in the hotel guidebook. Asher Jacobs didn't care. She just wanted a warm and dry place to escape from the rain, and enough alcohol to cloud her mind for eternity.  
  
Stepping through the door, the ever annoying tingle surged through her mind. She debated finding another bar, but decided against. She did not want to brave the rain again. If the Immortal(s) wanted to fight, she would gladly give her head and her Quickening. No fight necessary.  
  
She took the stool next a man, tall and almost gangly, and ordered a scotch. Straight. No ice.  
  
"Could I see some ID?"  
  
She silently forked forked over her license.  
  
The bartender handed it back, and grinned. "You're American then?"  
  
"Technically. So?"  
  
"Well, so am I."  
  
"Congratulations. I'd offer you a prize, but I seem to be fresh out."  
  
"Hey, sorry. I was just being friendly."  
  
"If I wanted friendly, I would have ordered some. Now, could I have my drink please, with a side of your silence?"  
  
Asher did not attempt to hide the weariness in her voice, but rather over- laid it with sarcasm. She could tell neither the bartender nor the man sitting next to her were fooled, but at least they kept their silence.  
  
She finished the scotch in one swallow, and she ordered another.  
  
And another.  
  
And another.  
  
And another.  
  
And another.  
  
"Hey, slow down. You'll make yourself sick."  
  
"Impossible," but the alcohol had subdued her, and the response was no longer sarcastic. "Even so, could I have a water?"  
  
"It doesn't work, you know," spurted the man next to her.  
  
"Adam," the bartender warned, but Adam chose to pat no attention to the warning.  
  
"Young people today have certain guidelines you follow when drinking. Take aspirin beforehand. Pee lots. And drink a glass of water for every glass of alcohol. However, none prove effective."  
  
"Well, thank you Doctor Adam," she responded, sarcasm once again apparent.  
  
"Just how many beers have you had, Adam?" the bartender asked, as he handed Asher her water and an apologetic grin.  
  
"I'll have you know, Richie, this is only my first."  
  
"Touché," he smirked. Still smiling, he turned to Asher. "Well, since you no longer seem to be biting our heads, what brings you to Paris?"  
  
"Certainly not the weather."  
  
"Yeah, well, it's usually nicer."  
  
"I'm not here as a tourist. It doesn't matter to me."  
  
Her voice held sadness, Richie noted, and he wondered who or what hurt her. It could be anything, he knew. She appeared young, but she was also Immortal, and appearances can be deceiving.  
  
"So anyway, Richie," he turned his attention and gaze to the speaking Adam, "when MacLeod returns, tell him he should meet me tonight. About eleven." Adam smirked. "Think you can handle that?"  
  
"I'll tell him, old man."  
  
"Brat," and he reached across the counter to ruffle Richie's hair before leaving.  
  
"So, umm, who's MacLeod?"  
  
"The owner of the place. Duncan MacLeod. He kind of inherited it last year. More water?"  
  
"Please. Inherited?"  
  
"Yeah. A friend of ours did own it, but he died last year. Car crash. Mac didn't want to see the place die too, so he took over."  
  
"And you work here?"  
  
"On occasion. Mostly I just fill in if Mac has to step out for some reason."  
  
"Like now, you mean?"  
  
"Like now. Richie suddenly broke into another grin. "You know, maybe I should give you more scotch. You're certainly nicer afterwards."  
  
Asher blushed and glanced at her hands. "Yeah. Sorry about that. Guess, I'm in a lousy mood."  
  
Richie shrugged and handed her her water. "We're all allowed bad days."  
  
Absent-mindly, he wiped down the counter, keeping an eye on the young woman. She was pleasant-looking, he decided. She had strawberry-blonde hair cut to her shoulders, and blue-gray eyes. Of course, she would be prettier, if she were not wearing all black. "So," he said after a long moment, "you never did tell me your name."  
  
Asher looked up and for a second, she caught his gaze. "Asher Jacobs."  
  
"A lovely name. Welcome to Paris, Asher."  
  
She offered no response, but only took a sip of her water. 


	2. So, How Old Are You?

September 09, 2004, 12:00 PM Le Blues Bar, Paris, France  
  
As the morning drew to a close, Asher had moved from the stool to a back booth. Richie had flipped the radio on, and hummed along with the songs as he dusted the shelves. It was days like this that he missed Joe the most, and his rugged edges and intelligent wit, and how sometimes on rainy afternoons he would play his guitar. There had been music since, but Duncan had arranged or booked all the music and music groups, and despite the strong friendship the two men had formed, Joe and Duncan had two completely different preferences in *good* music.  
  
Softening the radio, (some American pop-rock station), Richie poured himself a rum and coke, and threaded his way through the boots and the tables. "Could I join you?"  
  
Flicking her eyes from the table knots and her empty glass, Asher shrugged. She had removed the calf-length black duster [sweater-coat] she had been wearing, and Richie noted that her hair had waived now that it was semi- dry. He also noted that she carried no sword.  
  
"So, why did you come to Paris?" he asked, sliding into the leather cushion across from her.  
  
"You asked me this already. Before your friend left."  
  
"I did, but you didn't give me a straight answer."  
  
Asher met Richie's eyes, saying nothing, but rather she studied him. He had about four inches on her, (she was five foot five), and curly reddish- blonde hair. He was muscular, but not bulky, and dressed casually in jeans and a green t-shirt with a flannel plaid shirt worn like a jacket. He was still young, and obviously caring to show so much interest and concern in her: a stranger. She sighed, and averted her gaze. He was also Immortal.  
  
Shrugging, she responded, "I needed a vacation." She caught his gaze again. "Surely you understand."  
  
"Too well, actually." He sipped his rum and coke, wanting to say something else, but unsure of what. Her eyes held much sadness, for one so young. She did not possess a strong aura, which either meant she had been not Immortal for very long, or she had lived the life of a recluse for centuries. Richie guessed, (or rather hoped) it was the former. "So," he asked making sure his voice and tone was light, "how old are you?"  
  
Asher raised an eyebrow. "Twenty-two. Or, I will be twenty-two next week. You?"  
  
"Happy Birthday. Thirty. Old, huh?"  
  
Asher shrugged, and retreated back into her melancholy. Richie opened his mouth to say more, but was interrupted by the creaking of an opening door and the presence of another Immortal.  
  
"You know, Richie. I pay you to work, not to talk with the patrons."  
  
"You don't pay me anything, Mac."  
  
"Yes, well," Duncan muttered as he strolled to the booth where his former protégé and now sometimes employee was sitting. "I still expect you to work."  
  
"Take a look around Mac. No one's here. Except for me you, and Asher."  
  
"Asher?" Duncan looked across the booth, and noticed the young woman there, eyes downcast, and knuckles nearly white as they grasped her glass. "Hello, Asher. I'm Duncan MacLeod of-"  
  
Let me guess," she interrupted, raising her face and eyes, and focusing on Duncan's smile, "of the Clan MacLeod."  
  
"Have we met before?"  
  
"Doubt it. It was a lucky guess. Perhaps you should try a new line." Standing, she dropped a few francs on the table and pulled on her black sweater-coat. Without a word of farewell, she disappeared, the door slamming shut behind her.  
  
Duncan looked after her. "A bit biting, isn't she?"  
  
Richie shrugged. "Nah, she's all right. Just hurt." He sighed, and stared after her. For whatever reason, the sarcasm had returned to her tone. 


	3. The Tower Was Hers

September 09, 2004, 13:00 PM The Eiffel Tower, Paris, France  
  
Blindly, Asher Jacobs ran. Somehow, she managed to find her way to the Eiffel Tower, and bought a ticket. There were no other souls, and the young ticket woman was hesitant to sell her the ticket.  
  
"It is raining, dearie. It is not safe."  
  
Asher assured her she would be okay, and reluctantly, the ticket woman passed the ticket from her hands to Asher's. Silently, she took the elevator to the top, and started out into the expanse that was Paris.  
  
She had been to Paris before. On their way to Switzerland (where Asher had spent nine years of her life -- from age five to age fourteen, in a town not far from the Alps), she, her mother and father, and older brother and sister had stopped in Paris for three days. It seemed they had covered the city from end to end to end to end in those three short days. While Lauren loved the Louve the best, and Zachary loved Versailles, (which was technically outside of Paris), Asher had loved the Eiffel Tower. Before they had left, she had insisted on buying a small pewter model, which she had kept, and taken with her everywhere.  
  
Until the crash.  
  
In the icy sheets of rain, she could see the lights of the city, and could not tell if the wetness she felt on her cheeks was the droplets of rain, or her own tears. Or perhaps, the water was a mixture of both.  
  
She stayed there, in the wind and the rain and the air until long past dusk, watching the city. The tower was hers; no other soul (tourist or otherwise) visited. In the rain, they were tucked away inside, somewhere dry and warm, while she stood on the Eiffel Tower, remembering her family.  
  
She would give anything to see them again.  
  
Finally, no longer able to bear the wind and the rain and the cold, she made her way down, and threaded her way through the streets of Paris, until she came upon an almost empty restaurant.  
  
"Bonjour, mademoiselle? Just one this evening?"  
  
"Oui. Non-smoking, please?"  
  
The young hostess nodded, and led Asher to a corner table, lighted only by candlelight. Asher nodded dimly, and ordered coffee. She had always despised coffee, but needed something to warm her chilled bones.  
  
And, she hoped the bitter liquid would ease her pain. 


	4. Searching the Streets

Author's Note: Sorry it has take so long. College life has controlled my every move, and also I needed to work out some kinks in these next two chapters. But it is done now, and updating will run more smoothly (at least for now). As always, Asher Jacobs is mine; she is the only character I own. The three Immortal men (Duncan MacLeod, Methos/Adam Pierson, and Richie Ryan) belong to the creators of Highlander.  
  
This story is set in the year 2004. Richie Ryan still lives; however, Joe Dawson was killed the previous year in a car crash.  
  
And just to note, the previous chapter covered the time frame of 1300 hours (1 PM) to approx. 2100 hours (9 PM). This chapter covers the next hour and half, and the chapter immediately following opens at 2300 hours (11 PM).  
  
Happy Reading. Reviews are not necessary, but will be greatly appreciated.  
  
**************************************************************************** ********************  
  
September 09, 2004 2100 PM, the streets of Paris  
  
Richie had stared after her for the few seconds it took the door to slam shut, and then with no word to Duncan, he grabbed his coat and keys, and raced out the door after her. She was already gone, and he had no clue to as where she had gone.  
  
He knew very little of who she was. A name, and an appearance, and a sarcastic tone which came and left as she needed it. He had no concrete, *solid* information to file a police report, and even if he did have the information, he somehow knew she wanted to avoid the authorities. She was running from something, or someone.  
  
With a sigh, he climbed into convertible. He had traded in his motorcycle after Joe had been killed. No one had asked him to, it was simply his silent way of giving tribute to his much loved friend. The convertible was his compromise: it was deemed safer, but when the weather permitted, he could still feel the wind in his hair. Today, the weather did not permit.  
  
Silently, he drove the streets of Paris. He scanned the pavement and the still open stores and restaurants for her. He found no one, especially her. The streets of Paris were deserted.  
  
Knowing it was a hopeless search, Richie followed the streets to his apartment. Built in a more modern complex of the city, it was on the twenty-fifth floor of a twenty-five-floor building, and with some extra francs each month, he had free access of the roof as well. It was there he liked to practice or spar either alone or with either Mac or Methos.  
  
He pulled his car into his space, collected his mail (bills, bills, and a letter from Amanda), waved to the nosy old women of the first floor, and without a word, he unlocked his apartment door and let himself in. Duncan called it mature; Amanda called it dull. (He had painted the walls white, and had laid dark green carpeting throughout the space. He had come to appreciate fine art in the past three years, and had come to quite a collection, which he modestly displayed. The furniture was sparse, but good.)  
  
Shrugging out of his coat, and dropping his mail on the coffee table, he heated some leftovers from his date a few nights ago, popped open a beer, and settled on the couch for a late night movie.  
  
Barely, fifteen minutes in, the buzzer signaled. He had a visitor. 


	5. Eleven O'Clock Meeting

Author's Note: this story does contain a few sentences of slash. (I upped the rating slightly to accommodate). It will never exceed (here or future- wise) what I have already written. (Let me know how it was handled, as I have never written slash before. The history, if need be, is already written and will come in later chapters). Same disclaimer applies. **************************************************************************** ***********  
  
September 09 2004, 2300 PM, the MacLeod barge  
  
It was only a few minutes before eleven, and Duncan wiped the last of the dust from the tables, stacked the last of the chairs, washed the last of the dishes and the glasses, grabbed his coat and katana, and locked the door behind him. He had asked Richie to come help with clean up and lock up tonight, but after running after the strange girl, Richie had never come back.  
  
Climbing into his car, and turning the key into the ignition, he simultaneously buckled his safety belt and switched on the radio to his favorite celtic opera station. It was a short drive to the barge, and he knew Methos was chronically late, but Richie had relayed the message as eleven, and eleven he would be there.  
  
He pulled the car to a stop, and slid out, jingling his keys as he unlocked the door.  
  
"You're late, MacLeod."  
  
Duncan fell backwards, (thankful the wall was there to catch him), his face gone pale. He swore in Gaelic. He glanced at the clock; it was just barely a minute past eleven. He glanced again at the world's oldest Immortal, and mumbled a few more choice words under his breath. "Here early tonight."  
  
"I did say eleven, MacLeod, and eleven I am here."  
  
"I am beginning to wish I never gave you that spare key."  
  
He shrugged out of his jacket, hanging it in the closet, and storing his sword into an easily accessible spot. He missed Methos' teasing smile. "I'd offer you a beer, but I see you already helped yourself."  
  
"Do you mind?" Methos asked, feigning innocence.  
  
"Of course, not. Mi casa es su casa, remember?" he asked cynically.  
  
Methos grinned, and raised his bottle in mock toast to his friend. He took a long sip. "Grab a beer, MacLeod. Take a seat. How's the bar? Did you miss me?"  
  
"You ask too many questions, Methos," but the Highlander was grinning, and he poured himself a shot of whiskey, which he quickly drank. He took a seat in the chair across from Methos (who was sprawled on the couch), and leaned into it, sighing in contentment.  
  
"Warning me, highlander?"  
  
Duncan raised an amused eyebrow. "Perhaps? If I was?"  
  
"Would not be the first. Richie warned me earlier, after I lectured some young Immortal on the cons of drinking until drunk."  
  
Duncan choked back his laughter. "Wish I had been there to see it." He frowned, a thought having crossed his mind. "This Immortal, was she female? Sarcastic?"  
  
"She was. You meet her?"  
  
"Briefly. She bit Richie hard."  
  
Methos's mouth turned at the corners, forming into a slow, lazy smile. "I think love would be good for him. Give him something to look forward to."  
  
"I suppose you are right."  
  
"Of course I am right. I'm the ancient one, remember?" he quickly swallowed the last sips of his beer. "Now, what do you to say we move this conversation to the bedroom?"  
  
"Oh, you are just too much," laughed Duncan, and he leaned across the table to peck Methos lips. However, with other ideas in mind, Methos wrapped his hand around the back of Duncan's neck, and pulled him closer, deepening the kiss. "Of course, on second thought," managed Duncan once he could breathe, "the bedroom might not be such a bad idea."  
  
Methos only smiled knowingly. 


	6. The Unexpected Visit

Author's Note: A 2004-set AU fic, in which Richie Ryan lives and Joe Dawson was killed in a car crash the previous year. Yes, the same disclaimer applies.  
  
blackblade: In simplest terms, *slash* is a fan-fictional term to describe a relationship between two people of the same-sex. The relationship will involve some sexual contact, whether as innocent as kissing, or something more detailed, described, and imagined. (I only infer to those more imagined acts, but never put to writing).  
  
**************************************************************************** *********************  
  
September 09, 2004, 2300 PM, the apartment of Richie Ryan  
  
Setting his plate and the beer bottle on the newspaper-cluttered coffee table, Richie padded to the door. He half-expected it to be either Mac or Methos (come to claim a beer), and he half-hoped it would be Joe. But Mac and Methos were otherwise engaged, and Joe would never come calling on him again.  
  
He glanced quickly through the peephole, but could see no one, and somewhat hesitantly, -mentally cursing himself for not having his sword, for he could feel the tell-tale buzz -he pulled open the door, and gave a quick sweep of the long-ish corridor. The strange girl from the bar was slumped against the opposite wall, grinning up at him, embarrassed.  
  
"Lost, Asher?" he asked, only slightly surprised he remembered her name.  
  
"Half. I followed you home. I saw you from the restaurant window, and guessed you were looking for me."  
  
"Which restaurant?"  
  
"Somewhere near the Eiffel Tower. I stood on top there for hours, watching the city. Paris is beautiful from there."  
  
Richie smiled. He agreed. "You have a fascination with the Eiffel Tower?"  
  
"Something like that," she answered hurriedly.  
  
He was hesitant to invite her in. He was not sure if he should be disturbed or flattered she had followed him, and there was still the issue of her Immortality. Just because he had not yet seen a sword, did not mean she did not have one hidden somewhere.  
  
He decided to take the risk.  
  
"Well, we cannot have you sleeping in the hallway, Asher Jacobs. Come inside. At least, it is warm and dry."  
  
Asher smiled, and thanked him mutely. Using the wall, and disregarding Richie's offered hand, she pulled herself up, and mutely followed him inside. She only jumped slightly when the door closed behind them.  
  
Richie gave her the once-over, and noticed she was still wet from her Eiffel Tower visit. Briefly, he entertained the thought of taking some of her hair into his fingers, but she seemed too skittish for human contact. He was amused. Twice now he had seen her today, and both times was coming in from the rain.  
  
"Have a seat," he offered. "I was about to watch a movie."  
  
She smiled her thanks, and sat on the couch edge. Richie sprawled in true Methos style, and took up again his belated and now slightly cold dinner. He took a bite, swallowed, and asked Asher if she wanted anything: food, drink.  
  
There was no answer. He turned, and found her slumped against the armrest, asleep. He smiled, and stood, (once again, placing his dinner on the coffee table), and returned with a blanket for her. She stirred, and he took a step back, and muted the movie.  
  
He had seen it before, and knew most the lines by heart. 


	7. Phone Call To Amanda

Author's Note: An AU fic in which Richie Ryan lives, and Joe Dawson was killed the previous year. The Immortal Men (Duncan MacLeod, Methos/Adam Pierson, and Richie Ryan) do not belong to me, and neither do I own Amanda nor Nick Wolfe. Asher Jacobs is mine. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------------------------------------  
  
September 09 2004, 2330PM, the apartment of Richie Ryan  
  
He paid more attention to the sleeping Asher than he did to the movie. It was James Bond -From Russia With Love- and the actor who played Bond looked like a young Ramirez. (He had never met Ramirez, but he had seen the rare sketch).  
  
He had seen the movie countless times before. On Thanksgiving weekend 2002, he, Mac, and Methos had camped at Joe's and watched a James Bond movie marathon. Joe successfully burned the turkey, and they had ordered pizza and salads, and a slightly drunk Methos had tried to claim he *knew* James Bond.  
  
Richie sighed. Those were good memories.  
  
Asher stirred, and mumbled in her sleep. Strands of her still damp strawberry-blonde hair fell across his cheek, and gently Richie pushed the strands behind her ear. She reached for his hand but still did not awake, and after a forever moment, he pried his hand away. She protested, but still she did not awake.  
  
Gently, he moved her legs onto the couch (so she was now almost horizontal, instead of in the slumped sitting position she had been in), and tucked the blanket around her. Briefly, Asher opened her eyes, and caught Richie's gaze, mumbled something incoherently and closed her eyes again. She had eyes of the clearest blue.  
  
Switching the television off, he took his now cold dinner and still nearly-full beer, and treaded into the kitchen. For the second time, he microwaved his dinner to warm, and took a long sip of the now room- temperature beer, and he glanced at the clock. It read a quarter to twelve. Mac and Methos would still be engaged with one another, or already asleep contentedly in one another's arms. No matter which, should he disturb them, they would take his head first chance after. Amanda could still be awake though. With hope, he dialed her cell.  
  
"Helloo," purred a woman's voice.  
  
"I have a beautiful woman asleep on my couch."  
  
From wherever she was, Amanda's husky laughter floated through the telephone wires. "It takes much more than a couch, darling, to paint my complexion green," she paused, and Richie chuckled. "Now, what brings me a rare Richie call?"  
  
"I need to get into some Watcher files. With Joe gone, the process is significantly harder. I would ask Adam for help, but he and Mac would still be basking in the afterglow."  
  
Amanda's smile was visible in her voice. "Computers are more Nick's expertise than mine. I'll have him ring you when he wakes. He only returned home from work and hour ago, after working close to forty hours straight."  
  
"Fine. I'd appreciate it."  
  
"If he cannot help you, though," she trailed off.  
  
"I can either convince Adam to help me, or I could call Lewis Weiss. Computers are both his vocation and his hobby, and to hack into a secret agency would be his dream. However, he knows nothing of Immortals nor of Watchers," he paused and swallowed his breath and some beer. "She hides secrets Amanda. I only want to shed some light."  
  
Amanda did not need to ask to know he meant the girl asleep on his couch. "Before you hack into anything darling, try talking to her."  
  
"Reformed much, my dear?"  
  
"Hardly. But I am woman. I'll have Nick call you. Good night Richard, my lionhearted."  
  
"Good night, Amanda."  
  
The microwave had beeped, and he ate his dinner standing and finished his beer. Throwing both the bottle and the disposable plate into the trash, he took one more look at Asher. She still slept, a serene expression written across her face. Sighing, he retreated into his own bed, and having stripped to his t-shirt and boxers, climbed in, and fell asleep. His sword was ready, and hidden under the mattress. 


	8. Breakfast and the Note

September 10 2004, 1100AM, the apartment of Richie Ryan  
  
Richie awoke at eleven, and cursed under his breath. He had told Mac last night that he would be in at ten to help set up for the band to perform tonight. It was a blues and jazz band too.  
  
Grumbling, he stumbled from his bed, and into the bathroom to splash cold water on his face. Looping the towel around his neck, and drying as he walked, he noticed the couch was empty and the blanket was neatly folded at the end. A plate of eggs, toast and bacon was on the table, as was a glass of daisies and a note. He wondered where she found daisies. A quick peak into the kitchen confirmed that the dirty dishes had been washed, the trash had been emptied, and the counters and the tiled-floor sparkled. With an air of amusement, he noted his apartment (save for his bedroom) sparkled. He took the note in his hands and read:  
  
"Richie Ryan, Consider the breakfast, food shopping (he grinned, realising she had found the daisies at the store), and cleaning service my thanks for last night and my less-than-welcome sarcasm yesterday. I know I was a bitch, and I am sorry. Nick Wolfe ranf at nine. I told him you were still asleep, and that I was your cousin visiting from afar. He said to ring him at work at your convinience, that he would be in most of the day. I leave Paris tonight, but I will stop in at the bar to say good-bye. Asher Jacobs."  
  
He smiled, and replaced the note on the table, and took a bite of the still warm eggs. Scrambled to perfection with just the right hint of salt and pepper. The bacon too was perfect" crisp and warm and slightly peppery. He thought it heaven when the phone rang.  
  
Pouring himself a glass of orange juice, he answered. It was Mac, screaming that he was late. 


	9. Hotel CheckOut

September 10 2004, 1300PM, a Paris hotel room  
  
Asher surveyed the hotel room. She had packed everything she now owned. She would leave Paris tonight, and retreat to a tiny village in the Swiss Alps and recover for the next few years. She needed the rest.  
  
The bed was neatly made (as she had only slept in it the first and second nights she was here), and the dishes from the room service lunch she had ordered were stacked neatly on the desk. She owned only a duffel bag of clothes and toiletries, and her guitar, packed carefully in its case. She owned no trinkets or cumbersome swords. She had no use for either.  
  
She sighed, and fixed the falling lines of her white button down blouse. She had decided with blue jeans, and a wide black belt, and the black on black saddle shoes she had owned since she was sixteen (and now were her only shoes). She wore only minimal make-up, and a simple choker of cheap black glass beads. Her hair was pulled back into a half ponytail, and framed her face in wisps. She looked twenty-fiveish, which she needed. She could use the three year difference lie.  
  
Silently, she pulled on her black sweater-coat, and took her duffel bag into one hand, and took her guitar in the other, and with one more glance to confirm she had everything, she slipped from the room, and went to check-out. 


	10. Duncan Worries

Author's Note: An AU fic set in 2004 Paris, in which Richie Ryan lives and Joe Dawson was killed the previous year in a car accident. (Trust me it works). As for the rest, raises eyebrows, nods head, moves on. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
September 10 2004, 1700PM, Le Blues Bar  
  
He had sent Richie to buy more beer, scotch and whiskey. The shipment scheduled to arrive that morning had never come, and Mac was panicked. He hoped the band tonight would bring some crowds in. For all his hard work and dedication, business had downfalled since Joe's passing. He had taken control of the bar to save it, and some days he feared he did more harm than good.  
  
The bar was empty, save for him and Adam. The lunch rush had ended, and the dinner crowd had yet to trickle in. Mike had promised to be in before six, and Darcy had promised she would be in before the crowds. Only Adam sat at the bar, bent over his beer and research notes, an amused smirk on his face.  
  
"Quit your pacing, MacLeod."  
  
Mac mumbled something under his breath, and Adam chuckled. (They had made it a habit to keep their ten month relationship private, and rarely did anything happen outside the privacy of their own homes or a close friend's home). "Look, Duncan," Mac stopped at the sound of his Christian name, and caught Adam's direct gaze, "tonight will be perfect. It will be."  
  
"We've lost revenue, Methos."  
  
The oldest Immortal snorted. "You need to build from the ground up MacLeod, not from the sky down."  
  
"Whatever the bloody hell that means," muttered Adam, painfully aware of Adam's amused chuckling as he returned his focus to his research.  
  
Sputtering in own disgust, Mac disappeared into the back office to re- check tonight's details.  
  
"Hey listen, thanks Nick. I appreciate this. [pause] Sure thing. Next time you and Amanda are in Paris, we can meet for lunch. [pause] Haha. More like the Addam's family," laughed Richie, as he struggled into the bar with several bags in hand, and his cell phone cradled between neck and ear. Less than gracefully, he managed to drop the bags onto the counter with no breakage, and ended the call, flipping the cell phone cover shut. "Thanks for the help, old man."  
  
Adam shrugged, and without looking up, countered, "You seem to have managed fine, brat."  
  
With an air of forced acceptance and amusement, Richie flipped on the radio, and began to restock the alcohol. Soon the air was punctured by the bickering of the bartender and sole waitress, as the two openly hated one another, and arrived coincidentally simultaneously. 


	11. The Final GoodBye

Author's Note: I do not own the Eiffel Tower. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ------------------------  
  
September 10 2004, 1800PM, outside a Paris Hotel/the Eiffel Tower  
  
Grateful to be outside again, Asher hailed herself a taxi. The check-out process had taken longer than she would have liked. The hotel computers had been malfunctioning, and she had offered to fix the problems to pay for her short visit. The clerk had agreed, as had both the manager and owner, who had come to investigate the problem.  
  
It had taken her close to five hours to determine and fix the problem, but it had felt good to work with a computer again. (She had completed a double major/degree in computer science and sociology, and had not worked with a computer since she had graduated from college the previous spring.)  
  
The owner had been grateful enough, he had offered to pay her taxi fair to the airport, but Asher had politely declined. She would not be heading to the airport. "Le Blues Bar, si vous plait, monsieur," she requested, climbing inside the taxi.  
  
"Oui, mademoiselle."  
  
Asher watched as the city passed her view, and she knew instinctively this would be her last visit to Paris for a long long time. The Eiffel Tower came into her view, and quickly, she ordered the taxi driver to stop.  
  
Confused, he did as asked of him, and she paid him, and ran to the ticket booth, bag and guitar in hands, and hurried to the top. She was not alone, but still she stayed, watching as the city moved toward night and darkness, and the city lit up. She noted when the other left, discussing dinner options, but still she stayed. This was her good-bye; her final good-bye to not only who she had been, but also to her family. Silently, she took a family picture from her wallet, and hid it in the steel frame of the structure. Without a glance backwards, she headed down, and once safe on the ground once more, with bag and guitar still in hands, she decided to walk to the bar. 


	12. Dance With Me?

Author's Note: raises eyebrows, nods head, moves on her merry way. (Darcy is mine). ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -------------------------------  
  
September 10, 2004, 2100 PM, Le Blues Bar  
  
Richie Ryan liked his vantagepoint. From the back (which Joe had always jokingly called the "Immortal") booth, he could see the door, and everyone who came or went. He had a beer, (one of those horrid concoctions Methos repeatedly drank), the booth/table to himself, and the night off. (Coincidentally both Mike and Darcy had asked (for separate reasons) to have yesterday and the early time of today off, so he had pulled a rare double-day shift, and was determined to enjoy tonight's freedom and music).  
  
The band (made mostly of guys in his age-bracket -30s), was still warming up, and Mac was still tucked inside the back office with the lead guitarist figuring the final details of pay. Richie smiled knowingly, and took a sip of his beer. He had a good head for business and for numbers, but only offered to help if Mac first asked, and Mac rarely asked for help. It was no wonder, Richie thought, that Methos still called him the boyscout behind closed doors.  
  
The place was only semi-crowded. Mostly people in their twenties and thirties, and a few college students filled the air with conversation and laughter. Darcy was in her element: flirting storms with the male patrons, with winks, and air kisses, and intimate lean-ins when taking the order. More than a few girlfriends and wives would be jealous.  
  
She was a sweet enough girl. Twenty-three, she waitressed part-time to earn money towards her college education, and majored in the dramatic arts and took culinary classes in her spar time. She was from Ireland originally, and still spoke with a slight lilt to her speech. Richie and she had dated casually three or four times (their last date having been the third of September), and slept together once. It had not amounted to much, as she liked pillow talk more than he did.  
  
"Cat get your tongue, Rich?" asked Darcy. She plunkered down in the leather seat across from him, and smiled seductively. "Who do you pine for tonight?"  
  
"Who said I pined?" he played along, teasingly tweaking a strand of her long dark hair.  
  
"No one, but Mike bet me ten bucks you would replace me within a week."  
  
"You don't seem to broken-hearted, Darce."  
  
"What can I say?" she grinned. "I'm easily amused."  
  
Richie played back her previous words, and Darcy laughed at the puzzled confusion, which crossed his face. "Mike bet you? You two get within twenty million feet of one another, and you automatically switch to the offense."  
  
Darcy shrugged. "It is both a mutual hatred and a mutual respect," she leaned close to Richie, almost on the table, with her shirt pulled seductively low. "I hope I get one night from it."  
  
Richie laughed. Darcy was worse than any guy was. She often had one thing on her mind, and was not afraid to have it be known. "Mike know?"  
  
"Oh, he will," she grinned, pulling herself from the table, and straightening herself out. She glanced at Richie, and her playful relationship turned serious. "Pining has done no good. Talk to her, for hells sake."  
  
"Funny. Amanda said the same."  
  
"Well, Amanda is intelligent then," Darcy called over her shoulder, as she sashayed back to the kitchen to finish doling out the dinners, and collecting her harmless flirtations.  
  
Richie sighed, and leaned back into his booth. He took a long gulp of his beer, and when the pressure and the warning came, he did not reach for his sword.  
  
**************************************************************************** *************************  
  
Asher was cold, and mentally cursed herself for her bright decision to walk. Bright, being the key word. It would be a quick visit. In and out, and only to say good-bye to Richie. She sighed, gathered her mental defenses, and stepped inside.  
  
She noticed the two heads turned to her, but only was wary. The third --Duncan MacSomething-Or-Other --(which for all her belittling of, she could not remember) was probably in the backroom somewhere, as it was his bar. "A water please. No ice."  
  
"Sure thing, doll," replied the bartender.  
  
Asher side-glanced the youngish man next to her. It was the same one who had lectured her. "Sorry. About yesterday, I mean."  
  
Adam shrugged, and swept his gaze up, then down her face and front, before he returned to his work, and his beer. "We all have off-days," he mumbled, and Asher had to strain to catch it.  
  
Slowly, she threaded her way to the back table where she knew Richie sat, carefully balancing both her bag and guitar with her water. "How goes the night, Richie Ryan?"  
  
A smile broke across Richie's face. "Asher. You came."  
  
She smiled shyly, and slipped across the expanse of the leather, and set her bag and guitar at her feet. "I did promise I would."  
  
They lapsed into silence. The band started to play. It was folksier, then jazzy, and one line caught Richie's interest.  
  
~~Love cannot afford to be shy~~  
  
It was a woman singing. Faith or Hope or Charity. Green. She was backed all males. Guitarist, bassist, drummer, and keyboarder. "Care to dance?" he offered.  
  
"Here? Now?"  
  
"Sure. Why not?"  
  
Asher accepted, although her voice was small, and she quickly downed her still-near full glass of water. They moved to the cluttered floor silently, and Richie held her close, and almost delicately. He feared should he hold too tight, he would break her. He felt *protective. *  
  
She looped her arms hesitantly around his neck, and rested her chin in the crook of his shoulder. It was intimate, and strange, and wonderful. "You have scars. On your wrists. Most don't have scars," he whispered.  
  
She moved back to catch his eyes. "I cut to the bone."  
  
He asked no more, and she offered no more answers. Simply content to sway to the romantic beat of the music, they fell to a pattern of closeness. The song ended, and they stepped back. And Riche stepped forward again, and with his arms once again looped around her waist, he kissed her: first gently, and when she did not pull away, he kissed deeper.  
  
"I, I, I need to go," she managed, and grabbing her stuff, she raced outside; only this time Richie did not run after her.  
  
He slumped to the counter, and ordered a scotch, which he quickly downed.  
  
"This is why I finally took MacLeod in favor of women. Too complicated. Of course, at times, he can be worse," joked Adam.  
  
In spite of himself, Richie grinned, and ordered himself a beer.  
  
~~I get lost in your sapphire eyes~~ 


	13. Abandoned Alone

Author's Note: nods head, raises eyebrow, moves on. please note, I am not familiar with Paris geography. I have only visited the city once, and even then for three days. the train station Asher Jacobs is at is based on the one I too visited. Richie's apartment I have created, and have situated the bar roughly in between. As is the Eiffel Tower. If this is geographically incorrect, let us pretend. perhaps? After all, this is AU. ( ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ----------------------------------------  
  
September 10 2004, 2300 PM, A Paris Train Station  
  
Alone, she stood at the train platform. Cold, and now with nowhere to go, for her train had come and left, and she had not boarded. This had been what she had wanted; what she had needed. To escape a world of both immortality and reality, and to escape to the one place she had always called home.  
  
She had wanted none of this: death and immortality; abuse at the hands of her mentor; scars forever written on her wrists when all her other scars healed before she had seen them, before she had noted they had existed. This trip was supposed to have been the end. Tonight, she had planned to escape who she had been; to murder Asher Jacobs to start anew.  
  
Instead, she still remained on Paris soil. A thousand reasons ran through her mind and blinked behind her eyes, but only one truly mattered. Richie Ryan. She had felt safe in his arms. She could not remember when she had last felt safe.  
  
Sighing, she took her bag and guitar in hands, and stepped gingerly to the street level, and into the empty parking lot. She had one hour to go. She felt as if she had been through hell and back, and wanted nothing more than to find her personal paradise. But she no longer believed in paradise, and she no longer believed in fantasy.  
  
It had been her mother who had first told her of fairies. Her earliest memory was of listening to the story of the Sleeping Beauty and her three fairy friends. She had been curled in her mother's lap, with her head against shoulder, and with her mother's arms looped around her waist. Her father was in the kitchen, on the phone with work, and the sound of his voice wafted in the living room like gentle music. Somewhere, real music played in the form of Lauren's rock, and Zachary's lap. She had been only three, and in dreams, asleep in her mother's arms, she thought she saw fairies in the air.  
  
Life had killed her fairies. When she had pleaded for them to come, begged them to offer her their help and their guidance, they had not come. She had been abandoned to the cruel hands of life.  
  
It was cold, and Asher Jacobs shivered. She was not prepared to stay another night. She had no hotel room, very little money, and no food. She wanted to walk nowhere, and she could not afford another taxi ride. She wanted to sleep here: in the cold night, and to allow the darkness to wrap her inside like a blanket. She wanted to freeze and to die, over and over and over. She wanted to never awake.  
  
She would not. It would do no good. No matter how many times she died, she would wake, and she would live. She already had the scars of her failed attempt; she knew not to try again.  
  
It was the hour, she knew. Tomorrow was the anniversary. Third since it had happened. She did not want to be alone. Swinging, the duffel bag over her shoulder, and gripping the guitar case in hand, she wrapped her sweater-coat tightly around her shivering form. She knew only one place to go.  
  
She would find her way to Richie's. She needed to feel safe; she needed to know someone cared. 


	14. A Story of First Deaths

*raises eyebrows, nods head, moves on* (the Matthews family mentioned in passing is in reference to the show "Boy Meets World." Do not own that show or characters either). ----------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
September 11, 2004, 130 AM, Le Blues Bar/Richie's apartment  
  
Richie was ready to call it a night. The band had left an hour ago, and now only the occasional drunken patron would claim the stage on unsteady feet to belt out a tune. Words and lyrics slurred to the point of being undistinguishable. Of course, Darcy failed to help, as she cheered them on and brought them more beers.  
  
"You trying to kill people tonight?" screeched Mac, though his voice held a hint of sarcasm. Adam only smirked, which earned him a burned look from the Highlander.  
  
"Irish hospitality, Mac. Don't they have it in those highland bonnies of yours?"  
  
"Nah. Failed to reach us,' but he grinned, and Darcy winked, taking the glasses Mike had filled.  
  
Usually, Richie joined their battles. A few laughs, some teasing between friends, some drinks, but tonight, tonight his mind lay elsewhere. Calling night to the ones he called his friends, he quietly grabbed his jacket, and slipped from the bar.  
  
He drove slower than he normally would. He knew the alcohol would have little effect on his reflexes, but he still wanted to be careful. He had had more drinks than he normally would have, and he remembered all too well, it had been a drunk driver, which had killed Joe. He had sworn he never would put any family through the pain that he, Mac, Methos, Amanda, and Nick had suffered through. It had only been for one another, that they had made it through first the funeral, and then the subsequent grieving process. (It was in the aftermath of the grief, that Mac and Methos had first come together).  
  
The lights of his apartment were unlit, and even the nosy old woman of the first floor was asleep. He sighed, and checked his mail. Mostly bills, and an invitation for some party of sorts from a friend of his in the states. In other words, he thought dejectedly, nothing too great. Sighing, he stepped to unlock the door, and nearly tripped over a slumped form.  
  
Gaining his balance, he sighed, and knelt next to the form, to investigate. He could feel the Immortal aura, and automatically, his hand fluttered to the hilt of his hidden sword. He reached to touch a sweatered arm, and smiled. It was only Asher.  
  
Gently, he tapped her arm, and her eyes fluttered open, and a shy smile flashed across her face. "Richie, hey. I missed my train."  
  
He made note of the exhaustion and hurt in her voice, but wisely, he said nothing. He extended a hand to help her to stand, and gratefully, she took it. "Need a place to stay?" he asked, voice in hushed tones, and unlocked the apartment door.  
  
"No. Yes."  
  
An amused smile flashed across Richie's face, which he quickly hid should Asher notice it. "Well, which?" "I do. But," she paused, and averted her gaze to her shoes. "I need companionship more. If only, just for tonight."  
  
Tenderly, Richie took her chin between fingers, and raised her face, so eyes looked into eyes. He kissed her only once, and that too, held infinite tenderness. "What secrets do you carry, Asher Jacobs?"  
  
"You said you were thirty, no?" she whispered, and Richie (even as he stood face-to-face with her) had to strain to hear.  
  
"I did. I lied. My birthday is not until the twentieth."  
  
A shy smile crossed her face. "Mine is the eighteenth. I shall be twenty-two. I died the week before my nineteenth birthday."  
  
Three facts filtered and settled in his mind. They had both experienced their first death at roughly the same age, and their birthdays parted only in two days. And, she had died in the September eleventh place crashes. "No wonder you need companionship tonight," he whispered.  
  
She frowned, nodded, and her face barely moved, as Richie still held her chin lightly in hand. "I was due to fly west, with my mother. My father, brother and sister had flown the week before."  
  
Exchanging her chin for hand, he laced his fingers through hers, and led her to the couch. "Why did you stay?"  
  
She paused, swallowed, and breathed deep. "I had taken the semester off from college. Mom was a lawyer, and needed to wrap her last case. I wanted to say good-bye to Sam Clarke."  
  
"A boyfriend?"  
  
Asher nodded, and took another breath. "We booked a flight the following week. We were to move to Orange County. I attended UCLA. Double major. Sociology and Computer Science."  
  
She paused, again, and some recognition dawned for Richie. When first in the bar, he understood now when asked if she was American, she had answered technically. She had lived in the states for only a short time.  
  
"I remember the drive to their airport. I fell asleep before the plane left the ground. Hadn't slept well the night before. Nerves, I suppose. I never liked planes." More pause. "I woke to commotion. A man yelled, "let's roll," and next I knew, I was on the ground, the plan was nothing more than twisted metal, and dead bodies everywhere. There was no way I should have survived."  
  
"You did die, Asher," Richie reminded gently. His voice shook, and he did his best to hide the shakiness, but failed. Miserably.  
  
"I know now, but not then. You asked after my scars. I slit my wrists. To the bone. With a knife I had found off some man. I was determined to die. I know now I did, but still did not stay dead." "Asher," he breathed her name, emotion rolling from his tongue. " I am sorry."  
  
"I managed to find a main road, and hitchhiked to Philadelphia. Worked there. Nanny. For the Matthews Family. Come January, I returned to school. Took the train. Have not been on a plane since."  
  
"No wonder," mumbled Richie. "You carry no sword."  
  
Asher side-glanced him, and followed her gaze to their hands, still laced together. "I carry no sword. On return to school, an English professor of mine became my mentor. He had died in the concentration camps. Night before I was due to graduate, he tried to kill me. Instead, I killed him. Too disturbed, I took my diploma, and ran. Left my sword behind. Never bought another."  
  
"You do need a sword. Eventually."  
  
"Ironic, I suppose. I fenced since I could walk, and it never bothered me."  
  
"Not as much as you think," this time, he paused, and took the deep breath. "Immortality is never easy, Asher. We all leave something unfinished."  
  
"I know, but the anniversaries are always the hardest."  
  
"So they are," agreed Richie. "It is late. We best get some sleep."  
  
"Not alone," she pleaded. "Please. Don't have me sleep alone."  
  
Richie swallowed, but nodded. "You will not be alone, Asher. I promise," and he sealed the vow with a kiss. 


	15. Rooftop Conversation

September 11, 2004, 12 noon, Richie's Apartment  
  
Asher awoke within Richie's arms, held within the secure of his bent arms around her stomach, and his bare chest. Legs twisted beneath the sheets, and against the kin of her thigh, she felt the cotton of his boxers. He still slept, and in sleep, he appeared softer in appearance. In sleep, he possessed what Immortals could not possess in consciousness: innocence, and in watching him, Asher found her emotions stirred in way she had assumed to be dead.  
  
She touched tender fingers to the stubble of Richie's cheek, and touched tender lips to parted lips, and only feigned frown when the male eyes opened. "Guten Tag, mon ami."  
  
A smile crossed Richie's lips. "I always loved a woman who mixed her languages," he paused, expression twisted in thought. "French, and German, no?" Asher nodded. What other languages do you speak?"  
  
"French, German, English. Italian," she paused, and shifted within the strength of his arms. She had been good to come here. Here, wrapped securely in the cotton sheets and blankets, and held securely in the grasp of Richie's arms, she felt safe. She felt loved. She touched fingers to cheek, again. "Merci, Richie Ryan."  
  
"For what?"  
  
"For keeping me safe. For keeping me here."  
  
Richie kissed soundly, lacing passion with the words he did not speak. Asher did not know how to respond, and wisely she did not.  
  
***************************************************************************  
  
Asher did not eat breakfast. She assured Richie it was due to nerves. She had not eaten breakfast the morning she had died, and every anniversary since, when the butterflies returned, she found the very thought of food to be revolting. And, while Richie ate (microwaved instant oatmeal and strawberries), she read skimmed the book titles he kept, and observed the paintings he had collected.  
  
It was only after he had cleared the breakfast dishes, and both were showered and dressed, did Richie, with her hand in his, lead Asher to the roof, to show her the view of the city.  
  
"It's no Eiffel Tower, but," his words trailed.  
  
"No, no. It is beautiful," and her words were marked with tears. She felt alive. With every anniversary, which had come to pass, she had wished herself dead, and knew had she had sword in possession, she would not have hesitated to take her own head, and to take her own Quickening. But here, and now, in the company of Richie, she felt a certain freedom to live again, and a certain freedom to feel again.  
  
Seeing her tears, Richie brushed thumb across her cheek, and whispered soothing words to the air, and to her ears. "Fear not, Richie Ryan. The tears are good."  
  
She stepped from his tender grasp, and the black sweater-coat she wore over borrowed clothes, fluttered behind her in the autumn breeze. She side-glanced him, hands in pants pockets, eyes watching her. "How did you die?"  
  
"I was shot. Mac owned an antiques store in the States at the time. Mugged. I rose Immortal. Tessa did not."  
  
"Tessa?"  
  
"Mac's girlfriend."  
  
Asher nodded, and digested the information. "When?"  
  
"October 1993. About a month after I turned nineteen."  
  
This information too, she digested. Both had died roughly the same age: she the week before, and he the month after. Cheeks still streaked from the salt of her tears, she closed the distance between them, and touched her lips to his.  
  
When having once again returned to the apartment, they gave what they could not give last night: sex. Infinitely tender, and the very thing Asher needed to further prove she was still alive. 


	16. Flip Side of the Coin

Author's Note: yadda, yadda, yadda, blah, blah, blah. These characters are not mine. Neither do I own the city. Although, I would not mind owning Methos. of course, if I did, he would have his own show now.---------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------------  
  
September 11, 2004, 2 PM, the MacLeod barge/ the New York Apartment of Nick Wolfe  
  
Aware of Methos' hand and lower arm flung across his stomach (for even in sleep, the oldest immortal sprawled), with the first opening of his eyes, Duncan MacLeod swore lightly under his breath. It was already the early afternoon. He had a business to run, and could not afford to sleep late. Quietly, he removed himself from underneath the sprawled Methos, and extracted himself from the bed.  
  
"Come back to bed," slurred Methos, the sleep still thick in his voice.  
  
"No can do. I've slept too late already."  
  
"It is Saturday morning, MacLeod. Lighten up." Methos had still not opened his eyes.  
  
"Actually, it is Saturday afternoon. We slept the morning away."  
  
"In double-speaking," he mumbled, and the highlander had to strain to catch it. "Come back to bed, MacLeod. It is still Saturday."  
  
"Cannot," he paused briefly. "I'm taking a shower. There's some cold lasagna in the fridge if you're hungry." Methos only mumbled another incoherent response.  
  
When Duncan returned, still wet from the shower, Methos was sitting upright on the side of the bed, having already dressed in the same crumpled clothes he had torn off last night in heated passion. Head rested in hands, and when he raised his head at the light pressure of Duncan's reappearance, he wore sadness on his face. "We need to talk, MacLeod."  
  
"Abou--"  
  
"Let me rephrase that, MacLeod. I talk, and you listen." Duncan gave a curt nod, and honed his full attention. "We're good together, Duncan. In the past several months, we have given to one another something we both needed, and both wanted."  
  
"Yes, but--"  
  
Methos raised a hand to issue silence, and somewhat hesitant, Duncan gave it. "But we keep it behind closed doors. You give more to Le Blues than you do to this, to us. No matter the conversation, you mention the lost revenue, or the dwindling crowds." He shook his head, and Duncan swore he saw tears in the old one's eyes. "You care more for a building than you do for us."  
  
"No, nonsense. It's just," the highlander's words trailed.  
  
"It's just what, MacLeod. Because I know what it is I know. I love you."  
  
"Wh-what?" sputtered Duncan.  
  
Something in Methos' expression and posture sagged, and he managed to stand, and managed to shrug into his coat, and to hide his sword. "I am not repeating myself, MacLeod. When you come to your senses, give me call.  
  
"Wh-where are you going?"  
  
"Away. I've been in Paris too long."  
  
**************************************************************************** ***********************  
  
In the second floor New York Apartment he owned, Nick Wolfe dressed, while Amanda watched unabashed, still wrapped naked in the sheets of hid bed. "I have some vacation coming soon, Manda. Thought we could visit Paris?"  
  
Amanda shook herself from the hypnosis of her lover's body, and took a moment too digest the words. Neither had visited Paris since the first month following Joe Dawson's untimely death. It had been at Duncan's barge that they had first heard the news, and if not for the support all five had offered one another, all five would have lost. She forced an easy smile, whispered of genuine pleasure. "I always did love Paris, Nicky love. You working late to night?"  
  
"Not too late, I promise. Keep the sheets warm for me."  
  
Amanda laughed huskily, and silently pulled Nick in for a farewell kiss. 


	17. A Weight Lost

September 11, 2004, 2:30 PM, the Apartment of Richie Ryan  
  
Briefly, once again wrapped in the strength of Richie's arms, Asher wondered if she was going about this all-wrong. For the moment, she felt happy, and on such a somber day it felt wrong to feel alive. She silently reminded herself she deserved this right.  
  
Her stomach grumbled, and she shrugged a smile, observing the bemused expression Richie had donned. "Hungry, Asher?"  
  
She shook her head, and pulled herself to a half-sitting position, supporting her weight on elbows. "Food revolts me today. I shall live one day on empty."  
  
"You could live forever on empty," he mumbled, and from the crestfallen expression on Asher's face, he knew she heard. "Asher, I didn't mean--"  
  
She tried to shrug it, tried to make her voice nonchalant. She knew she failed miserably. "No worries. Suppose, I am just sensitive today. I think moved too quickly, took too many steps in little time."  
  
"Asher--"  
  
Richie, no," she prodded herself from the bed as she spoke. "I am grateful to you. In the three days I have known you, you have shown me I still have the ability to live, and that I still have the ability to take pleasure in life. Just, I don't want to push it. Already, I fear I have," she paused, and swallowed some deep breaths. "I need my guitar."  
  
"Your guitar?" echoed Richie.  
  
"Yes. I write music, songs. I find it helps to regulate my emotions," she paused again. "I have not finished a started song in over three years."  
  
"Since before the accident," he translated. Asher nodded, and strummed opening chords. "What was it like, Asher? To have to leave everything behind?"  
  
"Didn't you?" She did not look upward from the instrument.  
  
"No. I was a foster child. I had been living with Mac and Tessa for over a year when I first died. Mac was my mentor before, and he was still my mentor afterwards."  
  
Asher's glance strayed to Richie's face. "Heartbreaking. The only people who have ever loved you unconditionally believing you to be dead, and you knowing that you are very much alive, and never able to see them again."  
  
"Sounds familiar," he responded, and Asher cocked an eyebrow in question. "I told you our friend Joe died last year. He accepted who we were, no, or rather few, questions asked. Just unconditional respect and admiration for what we did. After he died, something in us died too."  
  
"It is not quite like, Richie. I don't mean to lessen the grief you felt, only that separate circumstances are involved."  
  
"The emotions are similar though."  
  
Asher returned to the guitar she held. "I suppose the emotions are. Does it ever leave you?" "Does what?"  
  
"The heartbreak."  
  
"Eventually, the pain does lessen, yes. But, I don't know if it ever leaves you completely," and somehow he knew she alluded to not only the emotions, but to the curse of Immortality too. "We are who we are, Asher. We can only accept the fact, and live as life lets."  
  
"I would have killed myself, had I had the chance. I wanted to die. Too much pain, too much heartbreak, too much."  
  
Silently, Richie gathered the weeping Asher in his arms, and rocked her, no words spoken, as the tears fell, soaking through the cotton tee he had pulled over somewhere in the course of the conversation. Whether mere moments or hours passed neither could know, but when the tears finally stopped, Asher pulled away, and a weight she had carried was visibly lighter.  
  
Richie held her a moment at arm's length, and offered a gentle smile. "You have the bluest eyes I have seen."  
  
She offered a smile in return, and curling again against his shoulder, she whispered uncaught words into the wet cotton. When they pulled apart again some time later, Asher took the guitar again into her hands to play, and Richie found some edible food. Both were hungry. 


	18. A Certain Amount of Progress Made

Author's Note: I can only lay claim to Asher. I would like to own Methos. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -------------  
  
September 11, 2004, 5:30 PM, the Apartment of Richie Ryan  
  
While Richie boiled some water for the frozen perogi he had found hidden in the freezer, and Asher picked out an unfamiliar tune on her guitar, a phone rang. It was Richie's cell phone, and he only managed to find it just before the caller hung up. "Hello?"  
  
"Sounds as though you just ran a marathon, Rich," it was Nick, calling from his New York office, and Richie could hear the smirk in his voice. "Or, like you have just had sex."  
  
"I plead the fifth."  
  
"I work for the law. I deal no mercy. So, tell me, how's your cousin?"  
  
It took a moment for Richie to realize he meant Asher. "She's not actually my cousin, Nick."  
  
"I figured. Most cousins would not cook breakfast in thanks for a couch. Especially, a couch as back-painful as yours."  
  
"I'll have you know," complained Richie in mock anger, "that my couch is very comfortable."  
  
"Only because you've never slept on it," Nick Wolfe paused, before he turned the conversation to more serious. "I managed to hack into the system. She's not in there. No record, no anything."  
  
"It's not uncommon," he paused to lower his voice a notch, and to empty the box of potato-filled pastries into the water. "It is not uncommon for Immortals to hide from the system. Methos has done it for centuries."  
  
"Yes, well, that's just slightly different. The girl you mentioned has only been a member for three years," the law enforcement officer paused, and Richie could see him shaking his head. "Anyway, listen, Rich, Bert's hounding me to return to work, and also for calling an international call to business charge. Amanda and I hope to get to Paris for a few days soon. We'll talk then."  
  
"Sure. Thanks, Nick. Send Amanda my love."  
  
"Will do. Send Duncan and Adam mine. Well, my regards, at least."  
  
"Will do, Nick. Au re voi," he stated, and disconnected the call. The perogi were cooked, and he took some cutlery and dishes from the cupboards. Searching around in the refrigerator, he came up with some bagged salad and an opened bottle of wine, still almost half-full. "Hope you like perogi," he called.  
  
"Never had," came the reply, as Asher stepped from the living room to the tiny dining room. She pushed the sleeves of the borrowed sweatshirt she wore to her elbows, and offered a small smile. "This is festive."  
  
"Well, we are celebrating."  
  
"Celebrating what?"  
  
"You. From the little you have told me, today has been a day of tremendous progress for you."  
  
Asher shuddered. "You sound like my old mentor."  
  
"That bad?"  
  
"Horribly so."  
  
"Then, I shall try harder next time," but he caught the tiny grin captured on Asher's lips. "Sit. Eat," and he poured her a glass of the wine, offering a toast to new beginnings. Asher raised her glass to his, and the shy smile she wore offered more than any word ever could. 


	19. Aviatophobia

Author's Note: Duncan MacLeod, Amanda, Richie Ryan, Joe Dawson and Methos/Adam Pierson do not belong to me. I do own Asher Jacobs and Darcy. While I do own (most) of the words for the song Asher sings to Richie, the inspiration and the concept come from Jason Robert Brown's "The New World" from his show Songs for a New World. If ever given the chance, I highly recommend this show.  
  
This is the concluding chapter to Aviatophobia. I am playing with the idea of writing a sequel. If you would like one, write a review and let me know. Cheers. ------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------  
  
September 19, 2004, 8:30 PM, Le Blues Bar  
  
Asher and Amanda had liked one another almost the very instant they had met. She and Nick had only been in Paris for two days and nights (crashing as usual at Duncan's barge), and the first night, Richie and Asher had arrived, bottle of red wine in tow, for dinner. Asher had shyly brought some flowers too. Daisies.  
  
In the week since the third anniversary of her death, Asher had opened much. She had apologized to Duncan for their initial meeting, who assured her she was forgiven, and had found in Darcy a common ally in the common pursuement of fun at the Highlander's expanse. And, she had immediate plans to remain in Paris. Duncan had given to her some brochures of some local law schools, and had offered a job at the bar to help pay the tuition bills. (Much to Richie's private dismay), she accepted the job offer, waitressing with more serious wit than Darcy's shameless flirting possessed, and Asher had also promised to work with the computers.  
  
It was this particular night, Amanda and Nick were cuddled in the Immortal-claimed back booth, Duncan sitting across from them, conversing over scotch (Duncan and Nick), and red wine (Amanda). Richie was behind the bar, alternating helping Mike fill drink orders, and offering words of encouragement to Asher every time she stopped by the counter. It was her first official night as a waitress, and no longer a trainee. Only was Adam still missing.  
  
When the place had come to a slight lull, and Darcy had claimed some drunken college boy's lap, Richie pulled Asher behind the counter, and produced, hidden between the liquor bottles, a small wrapped package, and a bouquet of daisies. "I know it was yesterday, but happy birthday."  
  
Asher stared at him, disbelief written across her face. She had not celebrated a birthday since before her first death, and had hardly expected someone she had know only ten days (even if it was someone as sweet as Richie Ryan) to remember. "Well, go on, open it."  
  
With trembling fingers, Asher meticously ripped the wrapping paper to reveal a tiny pewter statue of the Eiffel Tower. It stood no more than three inches high, and fit perfectly in the palm of her hand. It was identical to the model she had begged for when she had been four, and to the very same model she had lost when she had lost her mortal life. She felt tears spring to her eyes.  
  
Richie did not know what to say. "If you don't like it. it's just you seem to love the Eiffel Tower, and I thought."  
  
He was silenced with the soft pressure of Asher's lips on his. "I love it, Richie. Thank you. The daisies are nice too."  
  
Richie only smiled, and this time, it was he who initiated the kiss. From the shadows, Duncan appeared, and took a place before the microphone. "It is with great honor, I introduce the musical act for tonight. Our very own, Asher Jacobs."  
  
Richie's face showed his shock, and lightly Asher touched her lips once more to his, and taking her guitar into her hands, she made her way to the stage, sitting carefully on the stool, balancing the guitar in lap. "A birthday present for the one who showed me how to care again. I call this: The New World." she paused, caught her breath, and began to sing.  
  
A new world calls from the sky  
  
A new world calls across the ocean  
  
A new world calls from the shadows  
  
Afraid to fly, afraid to fly  
  
In that one moment, one special moment  
  
When the world crashes down  
  
And the walls you built  
  
Unravel before your eyes  
  
When the ground swallows the sky  
  
And the metal no longer metal  
  
And in that one moment  
  
You have everything to fear  
  
And no one to comfort you  
  
A new world calls from the sky  
  
A new world calls across the ocean  
  
A new world calls from the shadows  
  
Afraid to fly, afraid to fly  
  
And when you round the bend  
  
On the verge of death  
  
Doomed to path you never chose  
  
Doomed to road you never saw before  
  
Afraid to laugh, afraid to cry  
  
Knowing if you start, you'll never stop again  
  
A stranger in a new world  
  
A stranger in a new world  
  
A new world calls from the sky  
  
A new world calls across the ocean  
  
A new world calls from the shadows  
  
Afraid to fly, afraid to fly  
  
"She is amazing, Mac," clipped Nick in hushed tones, once Duncan had returned to his pre-claimed seat. "Joe would have loved her." "He would have," agreed the Highlander.  
  
One special moment, one special moment  
  
When you choose to stand tall  
  
And you know you are not alone  
  
And though the surface may still crack  
  
You break new paths  
  
Into a new world, into a new world  
  
For you have a house in the hills  
  
College education on the coast  
  
A boyfriend surely you love  
  
And a life to die for  
  
And then you die, and then you die  
  
And the house burns down  
  
And the boyfriend leaves you  
  
And you are alone  
  
In that one moment, one special moment  
  
When the world crashes down  
  
And the walls you built  
  
Unravel before your eyes  
  
When the ground swallows the sky  
  
And the metal no longer metal  
  
And in that one moment  
  
You have everything to fear  
  
And no one to comfort you  
  
Richie stood transfixed behind the counter, too entranced to care if the mob hit asking for more drinks. Barely aware of the light comradie touch of Mike's hand on his shoulder, Richie wondered if it was too early to be in love.  
  
And you'll know you'll live  
  
For it is a new world  
  
A new world calls from the sky  
  
A new world calls across the ocean  
  
A new world calls from the shadows  
  
Afraid to fly, afraid to fly  
  
Take the first steps  
  
Round the first bend  
  
Hand in hand, knowing you are loved  
  
It is time to fly, time to fly  
  
The bar stood silent, and for the briefest moment, Asher stood alone on the stage, terrified she had done wrong. From somewhere within the crowd, came a low whistle, and as if given the permission, the crowd erupted, but Asher only had eyes for Richie, and he only had eyes for her, and between them, the world danced. 


End file.
